


searching the sky for a friend

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Alternating, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22472665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: I’d known how the story goes all along, of course.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	searching the sky for a friend

Walking into the tent, he expects a middle-aged woman in heavy makeup, her face obscured by a glittering veil. What he gets is a young man in a purple dress, his long nails tapping the surface of a shiny quartz orb.

“Hi. Welcome.”

“Hello,” Max says. “Are you…” 

He gets a sly smile, full of promise and something else, too special to be wasted in a silly carnival. “The fortune teller? Yes, that’s me. And you’re… Max?”

“How did you—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m Charles. Sit down.”

Too stunned to do anything but obey, Max does, his legs tucked uncomfortably under the round table. Looking around, he sees multiple instruments he can’t recognise, alongside a tarot deck, a model of the Solar System, and a framed picture of a child.

“Do you want to have your fortune read?”

Max rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s not much of a believer when it comes to esoteric things. “Actually,” he says, then pauses. “Can we go on the rollercoaster instead?”

“Okay,” Charles agrees. He gets up, smoothes out the thick silk of his skirt, and holds out his hand. There’s an unabashed grin on his lips, and Max wonders if he’d known all along, somehow.

They leave the dirty tent and head to the sole worthwhile attraction at the fair—a rollercoaster that dwarfs the entire field, its apex so high up they can barely see the people in the train.

Charles pushes past groups of tourists to join the line, pulling Max by his arm. Atop his high heels, it’s easy for him to look around and examine the crowd. “How long do you think it will take?”

“Don’t know,” Max says. “Around ten minutes?”

“Then let’s know each other,” says Charles. He puts a gloved hand on Max’s shoulder. “We could play a… question game.”

The touch makes Max flinch. “A question game,” he echoes. “Okay. Who are you?”

“I’m Charles. I’m a fortune teller.”

Max rolls his eyes. “You’re useless.”

Crossing his arms, Charles stifles a laugh and pouts exaggeratedly. “And you’re very rude. I know quite a bit about you, so you should be nice to me.”

His words are a bucket of cold water on Max’s head. People move in front of him and he follows in silence, no longer in the mood to talk. Anger burns in his veins; who is this kid, and why had he known Max’s name without being told? How dare he act so nonchalant about it?

_What is he hiding_, Max wonders bitterly. 

“I’m sorry,” Charles says eventually, once they’re standing in the boarding platform, waiting to enter their car. “I can’t help it.”

“What?” Max scoffs. “Knowing everything about me with your… whatever, your _magic_, while I don’t get to know anything about you? It’s not fair.”

“I know it isn’t. I didn’t ask to be like this.”

They take the last seats. Charles’ dress is too long, so he holds it up with one hand and covers Max’s thigh with the other. 

“How do you know me?” Max asks.

“I just do,” Charles says. “We’re living in a story, you know. I can see how the story goes.”

Max nods, unconvinced but entertained. The ride operator fastens the safety harnesses over their shoulders.

As they creep up into the sky, Max clutches Charles’ hand, only to notice they’re both shaking. He tries to speak, say something encouraging, but no words come out. Instead, they reach the end of the chain lift, dropping several feet in a second, and he yells, embarrassingly shrill. 

They scream together through every banked turn and all the helices, and it’s the most catharsis Max’s ever had in his life.

Afterwards, Charles struggles to step back onto the station, his legs still trembling under the long dress. He’s too dizzy to walk on his own, arms wrapped around Max’s shoulders to steady himself.

Max is about to ask if he’s okay when Charles bends over a clown-shaped bin and throws up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh, God,” he groans. “I’m so sorry you had to see that. I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Max says, though disgust is churning in his stomach. _Why did he agree to come with me if he knew he’d get sick?_ “Hey, you said you saw everything in this story, right?”

Disgruntled, Charles hums. He leans over and spits into the bin again for good measure. “Why?”

“I just wanted to ask—how’s my father? I haven’t talked to him in a really long time.”

Charles shrugs. “A plot device,” he murmurs, pausing, looking at Max with a frown. “I don’t like how your story goes.”

Max’s eyes widen. “How does it go?”

“I shouldn’t tell you, because that’s how it ends up happening,” Charles says. “But I have to tell you.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Then _explain_,” Max begs, desperation rolling off him in waves. “I just want to know what’s going on! Is that too much to ask?” 

Looking away, Charles sighs. “I tell you it’s been great, and you say it’s late, but you hope we’ll meet again. You try to turn around and go. But I don’t want you to leave, so I end up taking control of the story. It’s selfish. You need to go home, but I don’t let you. I’ve never used my gift to do anything like this before. And—and the narrator doesn’t have power over us anymore. It’s not right.”

I look at him. Under the carnival lights, I can see the confusion in his eyes. To him, it’s as if I’m telling a funny joke or staying a character, just a man in a cheap costume, trying to entertain people I’ll never see again.

He has no idea I’ve trapped him in my story.

We leave the carnival together, hand in hand. Guilt weighs down my heart—I’ve gotten what I wanted, but it wasn’t truly _deserved_, and it stings. 

**Author's Note:**

> “Creeping up into the sky, stopping at the top, and starting down; the girl grabbed my hand, I clutched it tight [...] I shouted and searched the sky for a friend. I heard the fortune teller screaming back at me; we stuck out our hands and met the wind.” _Breadcrumb Trail_ by Slint. 
> 
> “‘How is your father?’ she asks disinterestedly.  
‘A contrivance,’ I mutter. ‘A plot device.’” Bret Easton Ellis, _ Glamorama_.
> 
> nicorosberg.tumblr.com


End file.
